Athato Bhakti Jigyasa #38

Narendra! This is not the story of a bird; it is the story of man. It is the story of man’s fall and man’s awakening. Man is exactly like this. Our home is in the sky—our home is in the heights—but with birth we begin to fall. There is no end to the falling, because the abyss is bottomless; there is no floor to it. We can go on falling and falling. There is no limit where one can experience, “Now, beyond this it is no longer possible to fall.” More is always possible—still more is possible.

The ultimate sinner has not yet arrived—will never arrive—because sin can always be further refined. New inventions are possible in sin; new arts can be added to it.

There is no end to the fall. Only by falling and falling one day the eyes open. It is from the blows of the fall that the eyes open; it is from the pain of falling that the eyes open. And in that very opening of the eyes, man begins to remember his home.

That opening of the eye is philosophy, vision. Otherwise we are blind. Don’t imagine you have eyes simply because these outer eyes are open. If you have eyes, then what did Buddha have? If you have eyes, what did Mahavira have? If you have eyes, what did those we call seers have? No, you do not have the eye; you have only the illusion of it.

Our eyes are like the eyes painted on a peacock’s feather. They don’t see; they are only eyes in appearance. Our eyes are peacock-feather eyes—painted. Nothing is seen, nothing is sensed, nothing is understood. Groping, stumbling, we go on moving.

The eye is there only when you remember your home. The eye is there only when the memory of height arises. When there is an intense realization of where you have come from, from which source you have come—then know that the eye has opened. And in that very instant, revolution begins. In that very instant, the with-the-current movement ends and the counter-current begins. In that very instant Adam becomes Christ. In that very instant, instead of going away from God, we begin to come closer to him. Our wings we already have; the eye we do not. If we have the eye, we can rightly use our wings. Power we have, vision we do not. Therefore our power becomes suicidal. With our own sword we shred ourselves. No one else has cut you; no one else has fragmented you; you yourself have fragmented yourself; you yourself have cut yourself. No one else is killing you; you yourself are killing yourself. Mahavira has said: man is his own friend and man is his own foe. He is his foe so long as there is no eye. Until then, the energy that comes into our hands proves suicidal. And he is his friend from the day the eye opens.

What happens between the closed eye and the open eye is what I am calling sannyas. The longing that the eye may open is sannyas. When the feeling dawns that the eye is closed, then the longing arises that the eye should open. Here the whole endeavor is to help you remember that as yet you do not have the eye. To help you remember that your so-called knowledge is hollow, false. To help you remember that what you have taken as life is nothing more than a dream—and nothing can be obtained from it. Like a man trying to press oil out of sand, so will you be defeated in life and die in dejection. These hopes you have hoarded will be of no use, because these hopes have no harmony with existence. They are your private dreams; such dreams cannot be fulfilled. Only when existence cooperates can anything be fulfilled—and existence cooperates only when your ego dies. Ego makes you fall; egolessness lifts you. Ego is blindness; egolessness is the eye.

This story of the Homa bird is man’s inner story—his inner anguish. If you understand it rightly, the whole pilgrimage-path of man becomes clear.

Listen again:
“This Homa lives in the very high sky.”
This is a symbol. We come from the heights.

Charles Darwin propounded a theory in the West—evolution. That idea is contrary to all religions. Evolution says we are coming up from below: there is no fall; there is progress. The Buddhas have said otherwise. They have said: man has fallen—we are coming down from the heights. The Buddhas say we have fallen from God; this is our fall. Darwin says: we have risen from the apes; this is our progress. The Buddhas say: God is our father. Darwin says: the monkey is our father.

There is some force behind Darwin’s view; otherwise it would not have prevailed. From one angle it appears he is right: there is progress. See—where there was the bullock cart, now there is the airplane, so there is progress. That is one way of looking at life. Where there was the sword, now there is the atom bomb—progress! But ask the Buddhas. They say: between the one who discovered the sword and the one who discovered the atom bomb there has not been progress but deterioration. The sword indicated small, limited violence; the atom bomb heralds vast violence. Those who managed with swords were not great violent ones. For us, even the atom bomb is not enough—so, the hydrogen bomb! And now we are talking of devising newer bombs still. Our endeavor is to have a single bomb capable of drowning the entire earth. Is that progress?

From one side it looks like progress—sword to atom bomb, a big advance. A sword could kill one or two; an atom bomb can kill hundreds of thousands; a hydrogen bomb can kill millions. In the art of killing there has been great progress. But has the killer progressed? Is violence progress? Violence is decline. Man has become more perverse.

All depends on the way you look at life—how you see.

Yes, people today are more educated. Ten thousand years ago people were unlettered; they could neither read nor write. From that angle, today’s man is developed: he can read books and newspapers. But the man ten thousand years ago was more silent, more joyful, more festive. There was a melody in his life, a rhythm. That rhythm is lost. From the rhythm’s point of view there has been a fall. Newspaper clippings have multiplied; the rhythm has withered away. There is much book-learning; the head has stored many bits of information—and the heart has shriveled. If you look at the brain: quantity has increased—quantitative development. But if you look at the heart: quality has declined—qualitative fall.

What is valuable—quality or quantity?

Look at man: he once lived in huts, then in better houses, now in palaces. Today even the poorest man wears clothes unavailable to emperors. Ashoka and Akbar did not have clothes as fine as yours. There was no electric fan, no radio, no television. In one sense even the poorest man today is ahead of Ashoka and Akbar—developed. Things have increased; possessions have expanded. But is the man who expands his possessions a developed man? That is the question, because the more possessions grow, the more worry grows, the more restlessness, the more insanity. Count things, and it looks like development. But is the development of things the development of man?

People say the standard of living has risen—good houses, good roads, good clothes, good medicines. The standard of living!

Do you call this a standard of life? Is life exhausted in just this? Will you call Buddha’s standard of living low because he begged on the road with a bowl? Do you think your greatest billionaires—your Rockefellers, your Morgans, your Fords—have a higher standard of life than Buddha? Mahavira stood naked—will you therefore say his standard of life was lower than yours? He had no garments; he had soul, quality, divinity.

Darwin’s view seems right only if we think in terms of quantity. If we think of inner qualities, it does not appear right.

This Homa story is the story of the continuous decline of human consciousness.

That’s why this country divided time into four ages: first, Satya Yuga; then Dvapara; then Treta; then Kali. The best age first; then, moment by moment, the fall. One leg breaks, then another; man becomes crippled and falls in Kali. Both hands, both legs—everything is broken. Behind this is deep psychology. You can see it in the life of each person.

When a child is born he is in Satya Yuga. In the child’s life there is trust, simplicity, innocence, beauty, delight. The child lives wonderstruck. Look at a small child, newly born—he is in Satya Yuga. For Satya Yuga you need not wade into philosophy—look at the small child. Then, slowly, the fall begins. Ego arises—the fall begins. Then possessions increase—the fall deepens. And in the end, look at a man in old age—he is Kali Yuga. Everything becomes mechanical; life becomes a burden. The old man becomes a machine. He somehow lives, somehow breathes; now he is preparing to die—there is no future except death. So we say: after Kali Yuga, dissolution—the end. After Kali there is no more time left—there is only death. This is the story of each ordinary life—and what is true of each person is true of the race.

The Homa bird begins its fall from the heights, from God’s home. First it is hidden in the egg. Then the egg too breaks—falling, falling. Then wings sprout—falling, falling. Then the eyes open—falling, falling. And when the eyes open, it understands what is happening! Until the eyes open it may perhaps be dreaming that it is soaring higher and higher—that there is evolution: “How far I have left my mother behind!” Every child thinks like that: “How far I have left my parents behind!”

The Western humorist Mark Twain wrote: when I was seventeen and came home from the university for the first time, I felt—ah, how uncouth my parents are! When I turned twenty-four and returned after finishing my education, I was astonished—how much my parents had developed in these seven or eight years, how intelligent they had become! As understanding grows, intelligence appears in the parents. The less the understanding, the more foolish the parents seem. In youth every young person thinks his parents are stupid.

Why?

He thinks: I am progressing. I am going ahead. What do my parents know? They are still old fashioned, still living in old routines. They know nothing. Life has moved from where to where; they have no idea. In youth everyone is a revolutionary and thinks, “I am taking life far ahead.” It is only the illusion of youth.

As long as the chick’s eyes are closed, it must be thinking, “I am advancing, advancing! How far I have come! How far I have left mother and father behind—poor mother, still where she was!” When the eyes open, it realizes: “I have surely gone far, but not ahead.” Going far is not necessarily going ahead. Going far can be falling or it can be rising—and rising is possible only after the eyes open, because only with open eyes can the wings be rightly used.

You are that Homa bird; each person is the Homa bird.

There are two very precious words in the Vedas—Homa and Soma. Both are worth understanding; both are symbols. Perhaps both arose from the same original word, because some people pronounce s as h. Then Homa and Soma may have come from the same root, only a difference of pronunciation. It is due to this s and h that India got its name. When the Aryans settled in Bharat, one part of them settled in Iran. Iran’s old name is Airan—from Aryan. One clan settled there, another in India. India’s old name is Aryavarta, Iran’s old name Airan. Those Aryans who settled in Iran pronounced s like h. So when they first journeyed to India—to meet their friends and relatives—they called the Sindhu river “Hindu.” From that came the word Hindu. From that came Hindustan. And from that came India. They said “Hindu,” and when the word traveled westward through them, there were tribes who pronounced h like i; they began to say “Indu.” From Indu came Indus—thus in English the Sindhu is Indus—and from Indus, India. So India became “India.” All this happened simply because some people pronounced s as h.

Homa and Soma may be one word divided by pronunciation. Soma means the supreme intoxicant by drinking which one becomes forever blissful—the ultimate wine whose intoxication never wears off. In the Vedas there is great praise of Soma. Assuming Soma to be some herb—like hemp or hashish—because intoxication is mentioned, countless people have been searching for it for centuries. The search continues. A great Western scholar even searched the Himalayas for twenty years and wrote a big book claiming he had found the herb.

There is no such herb—how will you find it? Soma is only a symbol, just as Homa is a symbol. Now don’t go out searching for the Homa bird either; you won’t find it. It is impossible that a mother could lay an egg at such a height. How would she live at that height? Where would she make a nest? Where would she keep the egg? There is no such height from which an egg could fall and, while falling, the chick would emerge; and while falling, wings would sprout; and while falling, eyes would open. This is a symbolic tale. Soma is not a herb; it is a name for drinking the Divine. It is the name for drinking the ultimate elixir. These are symbols. When someone drinks Soma—Soma, that is, the nectar of the Lord; raso vai sah—He is the essence—when someone drinks the essence of God, the ecstasy that comes never breaks.

Here, all flavors available are momentary; their intoxication wears off. For a little while there is oblivion; then the same snare resumes. But there is a wine of devotion, a tavern where, if you drink, then you have drunk indeed. By drinking it, you don’t merely forget—you melt, you dissolve, you are lost.

So Soma is the symbol of the supreme essence. And Homa is the symbol of that supreme home, that mother-home, that motherland from which we have come. We are coming from great heights—unreachable heights. Our so-called Everests are nothing—children’s toys—compared to the heights from which we come. We are coming from God. Some are still in the egg. To one who is still in the egg, the word “religion” seems meaningless. He is surprised that people go to religious talks, to satsang. He says, “What do you do there? I’m going to the cinema—come there! There is some juice, some enjoyment. Where do you go? What is there in religion?” He is still in the egg. One who is in the egg cannot know what lies outside the egg. He says, “Earn money, enter politics, fight elections, build status and prestige—there is some substance in this. What strain is this you are caught in? You are going wrong. Do something in life, leave some mark, some signature so people will remember you, your name will remain in history. If you get into religion you will be lost, and religion is false.”

Marx said religion is the opium of the masses. Marx must have remained in the egg. If you talk to one in the egg of the sky and the moon and stars, he will say, “You’re mad. Dreaming. You’re on some drug. What sky? I see nothing. What I do not see cannot be.”

Most people in this world are in the egg. The egg has not even broken, and they go on falling. Some people remain and die within the egg. The egg can break only if you flutter your wings a little—if you peck from within! Don’t become content with the shell. Do not be content with your security. Make a little venture, a little search, a little inquiry—athato bhakti jijnasa! The egg will break, but it will break only if you do something from within. From outside it cannot be broken; the key opens only from within. If someone tries to break it from outside, it becomes harder, because you begin to defend, to protect yourself, you become afraid. Only if you gather courage from within will the shell break.

For some the egg breaks, but their eyes do not open. Then they begin to fall with closed eyes. Such people think about religion but do not practice it. They consider it, they say religion is a good thing, they discuss God theoretically, read the Gita, read the Koran, memorize words—but no color enters their lives. They do not dye their lives. For them religion is talk—empty talk. Many end like this.

Only a few fortunate ones engage in the effort to open the eyes. Eyes open through bhajan—devotional singing, worship. In the energy of bhajan lies the possibility of the eye opening. Or through meditation—the two are different ways of saying one thing. Through meditation or through bhajan the eye opens. Don’t go on thinking about bhajan—do bhajan. When religion becomes your action, the eye will open. And the moment the eye opens, revolution happens. One sees that one is falling—falling day by day. We are all falling into the mouth of death—that is the ground on which we will shatter. Do you not see how many have fallen, shattered, and lie in their graves? How long will you go on? Soon you will collide with the earth, break, and sink into the grave. No lost hour is ever recovered. Time gone is gone. When the eye opens, one sees how much has already been wasted. No need to waste more. Instantly the direction reverses.

Your wings are already with you. Without the eye, even your own wings are not seen. Without the eye, you do not see what wealth you were born with. Without the eye, you do not realize there are mines of diamonds and jewels within you. The kingdom of God is within. God has sent you fully provisioned. But the eye is needed. Buddha and Christ and Krishna keep saying the kingdom of God is within you—you hear it and then go sit in your shop. You hear it and let it pass.

Christ often said to his disciples: if you have eyes, see—I am standing before you! If you have ears, hear—I am shouting!

Those he addressed had eyes like yours, ears like yours. He was not speaking to blind men. But the ordinary man is indeed blind, deaf, and lame. He only thinks; he does not do. And life is transformed only by action.

Some are fortunate whose eyes open. The moment of the opening is the moment of sannyas. After that transformation happens—the counter-current begins; the homeward journey starts. The son turns back toward the father. The Adam who was expelled from the kingdom of God sets out again in search of the Lord—the search for home.

If you treat the Homa bird story merely as a story, you will miss its juice. The whole process is hidden in it.

The clouds may know the tryst of the fickle one’s arms,
But the thunderbolt strikes only my life, my wings.
When have I ever told anyone that from the honey of her beauty
Even a tiny drop moistened my eyes?
When have I told anyone that from the dust of her path
I lifted even the smallest grain and placed it on my head?
If I know anything, I know this at least:
What a price life must pay even to see the dream of such a sight.
The clouds may know the tryst of the fickle one’s arms,
But the thunderbolt strikes only my life, my wings.

When, among full, dark clouds, the lightning flashes,
Suddenly an electric current runs through the wings.
And when the sky thunders, it seems as if someone
Calls irresistibly, in tones of authority, of command.

You have been called many times—you are being called—you are being called even now. I am calling you. But you sit shriveled within. You have built a small petty world and are shackled there. You have gathered trinkets and taken them for treasure; you are stuck there—and you are falling day by day, every moment. Soon you will strike the earth and be shattered.

And when the sky thunders, it seems as if someone
Calls irresistibly, in tones of authority, of command.
When did the earth slip away? When did I rise into the air, pierce the sky?
How far I sank, where—I know nothing at all.
Whether I myself am pulling, or the sky is pulling me—of this
My restless life, my wings, are utterly unaware.
The clouds may know the tryst of the fickle one’s arms,
But the thunderbolt strikes only my life, my wings.

Do you hear?

And when the sky thunders, it seems as if someone
Calls irresistibly, in tones of authority, of command.

Whenever truth descends, it descends with irresistible command. The words of the Buddhas are words of authority. Philosophers’ words are hesitant. The philosopher says, “Perhaps it is so.” The seer says, “It is so. I am the proof. Come with me and you too will become proof.” The philosopher says, “I think, I hypothesize—perhaps it is so; perhaps God is, must be, will be.” The philosopher cannot change life. This is the difference between philosophers and seers. The philosopher is like a blind man making statements about light: “It must be. So many say so; they can’t all be wrong. There must be light. How can life be without light?” He conjectures, argues, cites scriptures.

What is different about the seer? He has seen light. The utterances of the enlightened are utterances of authority—no hesitation. They say it as it is.

When, among full, dark clouds, the lightning flashes,
Suddenly an electric current runs through the wings.
And when the sky thunders, it seems as if someone
Calls irresistibly, in tones of authority, of command.
When did the earth slip away? When did I rise into the air, pierce the sky?
How far I sank, where—I know nothing at all.

And then those who have a little courage, a little soul, in whom not everything has died and rotted—those people stand up and set out. They spread their wings. They embark upon the journey into the unknown.

When did the earth slip away? When did I rise into the air, pierce the sky?
How far I sank, where—I know nothing at all.

An irresistible longing is born. A yearning arises for which one feels like staking everything.

Whether I myself am pulling, or the sky is pulling me—of this
My restless life, my wings, are utterly unaware.

Then even it is not clear whether I am being drawn toward the sky or the sky is drawing me. The pull is so absorbing, the unity so total, that it becomes hard to tell. Those who have come to me and truly set out on the journey of sannyas find it difficult to decide whether they took sannyas or I gave it to them.

When did the earth slip away? When did I rise into the air, pierce the sky?
How far I sank, where—I know nothing at all.
Whether I myself am pulling, or the sky is pulling me—of this
My restless life, my wings, are utterly unaware.

Nothing is known—but the journey begins. Here there are people who know everything and do not journey. And here there are those who know nothing and yet set out. Those who journey will truly know. Those who sit clutching their rotten, borrowed, stale information—however vast their scholarship, it hides only their ignorance.

Whether I myself am pulling, or the sky is pulling me—of this
My restless life, my wings, are utterly unaware.
The clouds may know the tryst of the fickle one’s arms,
But the thunderbolt strikes only my life, my wings.

Experience life’s blow, the thunderbolt! Open your eyes! If until now you are shut inside your shell of security, break your shell; open your eyes; see your wings. Your wings themselves are the proof of the sky. If there are wings, there must be sky. If there are wings, there must be heights—otherwise, why wings? How would wings be? For what would they be? Nothing in this world is without purpose. If within you there is a longing to seek God, then God must be—for otherwise that longing would not be. There would be no wings if there were no sky. How could wings be? For what? From where? What would be their purpose? Nothing is purposeless. Your wings are the proof that there is sky—that there are heights to be known—and without knowing which there can be no fulfillment.

Become the Homa bird! And if you become the Homa bird, one day there will be the drinking of Soma. If you become the Homa bird, one day Soma-nectar will pass down your throat. You will be able to drink the Divine. Without drinking him there is no satiation. Drink as much water of this world as you like, thirst returns again and again. But if even a single drop of that world descends into the throat, thirst ceases forever.

Asked by Shubhakaran Pungaliya.
Auspicious, Shubhakaran! True it is. And this feeling, this question that has arisen in the mind—whether in kaivalya even the witness merges into the light—is precious.
In that final moment, duality does not remain. Who is the witness? Witness of whom? In that final moment, devotee and God do not remain. Who is the devotee? Who is God? What is the seen? Who is the seer? There only one remains. Neither the seen remains nor the seer; only seeing remains. Neither the knower nor the known remains; only the energy of knowing remains. Only light remains; the witness does not.

As long as the witness is, however deep the experience, the final experience has not happened. As long as the one who sees is present, what you see is separate from you, other than you. That is not self-experience. You are the seer and something is happening nearby—however subtle it may be. A candle burns in your room; you see its light—this is ordinary, gross light. Then a lamp is lit within you—without wick, without oil; neither oil nor wick, yet the lamp is lit—but if you are still the observer, there is not much difference. The first lamp was gross, the second subtle. The first was outside the body, the second within the body—but still you stand apart from it, because you are the seer. You are seeing that there is light. The light is being seen.

Remember, the spiritual “experience” is not an experience at all. Therefore all experiences are either bodily or mental. This may be a very deep mental experience, a lovely experience, but do not stop there. The arrival is where the experience and the experiencer become one, where the seen and the seer become one. That last moment is called kaivalya. Kaivalya means exactly this: only one remains, only. A beautiful Jain term—kaivalya. It proclaims the One alone. Only the One remains. The pure One remains. There, no experiences remain. Hence the ultimate is not an experience as such.

And it can be seen without eyes. For what has ever truly been seen by the eyes? Who has seen what through these eyes? These fleshy eyes only provide the illusion of seeing. They suffice in the outer world: you don’t bump into each other, you go along the road and reach home; you don’t walk through the wall, you go through the door—that is their utility. But what else do they show? The outer collisions are avoided; the inner collisions are not. Outwardly you see and bypass—“Ah, a man is standing here; let me get around him.” But inside? Inside, person to person, there are collisions—ambition, strangling clashes. Between wife and husband, father and son, brother and brother—collisions go on. When the inner eye arises, these collisions too disappear. No clash remains at all. No enmity remains, no hostility remains. Only love, nothing but love, remains.

And even with these eyes you see others only a little—because their real organ does not appear. When someone appears to you, only the body is seen; the soul is not seen. Yet that is the real organ. The body is merely the outer shell. As if someone has seen only a book’s cover, while what is inside is not seen. And the real thing is inside the book, not in the cover. However lovely the cover, the real thing is within—the content is within. The body is only a lid, a wrapper. The soul is within; it cannot be seen by these eyes. Your own soul is not seen by these eyes, so how will another’s be seen? Hence right vision—the true eye—is another name for self-realization. When inwardly the sense of your own being becomes clear—Who am I?—with that very sense you will begin to see within others too who they are. And then you will find that the One alone pervades. It is the expanse of kaivalya.

Nothing will come of raising a feeling in Sheela! And that is exactly what Sheela meant. She did not mean: when a feeling arises in Sheela, then. She meant: when a feeling arises in you, then. Within you there is the desire to touch my feet, but the feeling has not yet arisen.

There is a great difference between desire and feeling (bhav).
Feeling would mean that you have truly become ready to bow. But you have not even taken sannyas yet. Feeling has not arisen—there is only a desire, a craving. And what will happen by touching outer feet? Until within you there comes such a state of feeling that you can surrender, the real surrender, the real bowing, does not happen. That is what Sheela meant. Sheela is quite a mystic. She said it rightly: “when the feeling arises.” She only meant that you do have the desire—obviously, if you have been saying it for fifteen years, you are not lying. But feeling—feeling is a much bigger thing. Feeling means: why bow only outwardly, why touch outer feet? Let there be a union within. What else is the meaning of sannyas? Only this. And now a few inner experiences have begun to happen in your life. Now the hour of sannyas has come. For fifteen years you have thought only of touching outer feet—will you think for fifteen lifetimes of touching the feet within? Do not waste such a time.

The life-giving spring goes away from the garden, yet returns again;
the dark cloud, after pouring down once, gathers once again.
The stars go dim by day, and then at night they shine again;
upon the firmament all night they sparkle, laughing with mischief.
Into the lake of the horizon the sun at night descends,
then peeping from the palace-windows of the rim of the sky, it smiles again.
If flowers and buds have withered—what of it?
After autumn these flowers and buds will still be fragrant again;
as soon as spring arrives the birds will sing again upon the branches.
If a dark night comes, O friend, let it come;
if the forest stream runs dry, so be it—
some night moonlight will arrive and dispel this gloom;
this river will sing again its sweet and melodious songs.
The trace of the hours that have passed is never found again;
once the lotus of the heart has withered, it does not bloom again.

Keep this in mind! Everything returns, everything comes back—
the trace of the hours that have passed is never found again.
But when time has gone by, not even its trace is found again. You are here—will you be satisfied just to touch my feet and go away? Will that solve it? If that is enough, then I will tell Sheela to send Shubhkaran today.

What will come of just that? And when I am ready to give you everything, why are you content to take so little? I am not miserly in giving—you are being miserly in receiving! This is miserliness to the extreme!

The trace of the hours that have passed is never found again.
Who knows about tomorrow? I may be, you may not; you may be, I may not; we both may be—and it still may not be possible to meet.

There is an old Chinese tale. An emperor sentenced his prime minister to death by hanging. He had been angered—some incident happened. He loved the minister very much, but a king is a king. For a small thing he got so angry that in his anger he said, “Hang him.” The hanging was to be after seven days. But the rule of that kingdom was that the emperor would visit anyone sentenced to death the day before the hanging. And this was his minister, after all. So he went to meet him. The minister was a brave man, had fought in many wars, bore great scars on his chest. No one had ever seen tears in his eyes. But seeing the king, tears began to stream down uncontrollably. The king said, “Strange! Are you afraid of death? I have known you all my life. There is no man as courageous in this kingdom as you. I have never seen you crying. Why are you crying? What is the matter? Tell me what it is.”

He said, “There is nothing to say now—what has happened has happened. I am not weeping from fear of death; I am weeping because of your horse.
The horse you rode here on is tied outside; I can see it through the bars.” The emperor said, “Because of the horse? Why would you weep for a horse? Don’t speak in riddles—tell me plainly.”

The minister said, “If you will not accept it otherwise, I will tell you. All my life I have learned one art, with great effort: I can teach a horse to fly. But only a particular breed of horse can be taught to fly. I could never find that horse. Today, on the day of my death, that horse is standing before me! The horse you have ridden is exactly the breed I have been seeking all my life. This breed can learn to fly.”

The emperor’s ambition was stirred: if a horse could fly! In those days the horse was the greatest power. And if a horse could fly—then what to say! The emperor’s empire would spread over the whole world. He asked, “How long will it take to teach the horse to fly?”

The minister said, “One year.”

The emperor said, “Then for one year I will release you from prison. If the horse learns to fly, I will give you half the kingdom and marry you to my daughter. If the horse does not learn to fly—well, instead of hanging now, you will hang after a year.”

The minister mounted that horse and returned home. At home his wife was weeping, the children were weeping, his mother was weeping, his father was weeping—the last day had come and there was no sign of a pardon. Seeing the son return, the father could not comprehend it. The wife went mad with joy. Everyone surrounded him: “How were you saved? What happened?” He laughed and said, “This is how I was saved,” and told the story.

The wife began to weep even louder; the mother beat her chest. They said, “What have you done? We know you know nothing about teaching a horse to fly. When did you learn it? Where did you learn it? You have never even spoken of it.”

The minister said, “I know nothing about horses flying—this is a tale I spun.”

They said, “Now you have put us in even more trouble. These seven days passed with such agony—now a whole year will pass in agony. It would have been better if you had died. You have hung us upon the gallows for another year. And if you had to ask, you could at least have asked for ten years.”

The minister said, “Have you gone mad? What guarantee is there of a year? The king can die, I can die, and at the very least the horse can die. What guarantee is there of a year? Anything can happen. Do not worry!”

And the astonishing thing is: that is what happened—the three of them died: the king died, the minister died, and the horse died.

The trace of the hours that have passed is never found again.

The flowers within you have begun to bloom. Do not miss the opportunity! If there is a longing to bow, then bow! And once bowed, why rise again? This is all that sannyas means: once bowed, bowed—then why rise again? Then let there be a thousand obstacles, a thousand troubles, a thousand defamations—let people think you mad! Shubhkaran’s only obstacle will be this: he lives in Calcutta; there people will think him mad. What is there to fear? These very people of Calcutta will, one of these days, decorate your bier and carry you to the cremation ground. Why worry about them? What harm if they think you mad?

From his language he seems to be a Jain. He must be afraid of the Jains—the monks, the sadhus will hound him: “What has happened to you? You have gone astray!” Just say, “Yes, I have gone astray, I have gone mad—what can I do?”

When, among the swollen, dusky clouds, the lightning flashes,
then suddenly a current runs through the wings;
and when the sky is roaring, it seems as if someone
irresistibly calls—in tones of claim and command.
I am calling you—in tones of irresistible claim and command.
When did the earth slip away, when did I rise into the air, pierce the sky—
how far I sank, in what direction—I know nothing.
Whether I myself am pulling, or the sky is pulling me—of this
my restless life-breaths, my wings, are utterly unaware.
The clouds may know the tryst in Chanchala’s arms,
but the thunderbolt strikes only my life-breaths, my wings.

Say, “I have gone mad. What can I do? I was pulled—the sky pulled me. What happened, I do not know.” Say, “What could I do? A lightning flashed, my wings fluttered; I could not help but fly.” People remain stuck because of people’s opinions. What is the value of people? What is the value of their opinions? What will you gain from their opinions? When has anyone ever gained anything from them? Be courageous! I can surely raise a feeling in Sheela—but it will do nothing. You must let the feeling arise in yourself! The time has come. The right moment is here—do not miss it.

Someday the curtain of shyness will lift from between us;
someday there will be unreserved ease between us.

The moment has come. The ease can happen. My invitation. The curtain can rise. But I have not dropped the curtain. Nor has Sheela dropped it. You have dropped it. If you lift it, it will lift.

I have heard: a playwright, after much labor, had many plays that failed on the stage. He became very troubled. One day he told his beloved, “I am thinking of suicide. There is no point in living. Every play I wrote failed. My failure is deep. I am utterly withered; I am broken.”

His beloved said, “Do not lose hope! Now you stop writing plays; you and I will act in a play on the stage.”

“How?” asked the playwright.

“In the first scene,” she said, “I will sing; then the curtain will rise.”

“And then?” asked the playwright.

“In the second scene I will dance.”

“And then?” asked the playwright.

“Then—the curtain will rise again, and in the third scene…”

The playwright asked, “You, you, you—only you are showing all the scenes. What will I do?”

His beloved said, “What do you think—the curtain will rise by itself? You will raise the curtain!”

The curtain does not rise by itself—that is true. But even if Sheela raises it, it still will not rise for you, Shubhkaran! You yourself will have to raise it—you were the one who dropped it.

I am ready for the curtain to rise. And your soul within is ready; your longing has arisen too. But you are a little frightened, a little full of hesitation—small, petty fears. Let them go now. In this world nothing is worth worrying about. Where all is going to be lost, what is there to worry about?

It has been asked by Swami Shirish Bharti.
It probably hasn’t gone beyond all bounds yet! There must still be a little holding back. Otherwise, who would be left to ask? Who would be left to say anything? A moment surely comes when love passes beyond all limits. Then you don’t even know it—because the knower himself drowns. You are in love, but you must still be saving a little of yourself. You must also be persuading yourself that love has now gone beyond all bounds.

Love is a very unique happening. In this world, love is the greatest madness—and also the greatest wisdom. Love is a great paradox. Love brings great pain and great bliss. The pain is that the ego has to die. The bliss is that only in egolessness does joy descend.

And what we have so far called love in this world is the love of the transient—like a storm in a teacup. The love I am teaching you is not of the transient, but of the eternal. Where could that have a boundary? You may pass beyond your limits, but where is the limit of that love? That love is boundless. Its name is the Unstruck, the Unbounded. It has no shore. The love that has a boundary is worldly love; the love that has no boundary is spiritual love.

Yet I understand your difficulties. In these lines you have pointed directly to your difficulty:

In the end we had to tell the tale of our heart—
Blessed are those who never fall in love.

You have made your submission in these lines. There is pain in love. The great pain is that you begin to melt away. Slowly, slowly, you dissolve. When you come to me you don’t even know this. You come to me to be strengthened; you come to me to feed your ego: that your knowledge increase a little, your meditation deepen a little; that having secured some hold in the world, you might secure a little hold in the other world too. Let a little merit accrue. “Here everything is nicely arranged; let me arrange heaven as well—make preparations before I go—get my reservation. Here I have unfurled many flags of victory; now let me plant a big flag in heaven too.” You come with such ambitions. And I, slowly, slowly, begin to pull down your flags. I slowly begin to change your notions. Once you fall in love with me, then, little by little, you start consenting. One day your entire ego is gone. But the ego does not go without a struggle. It causes great pain. Yet if love has taken root, it has to go, no matter how much it fights. Its defeat is then certain. A tiny seed of love is enough to dissolve the mountain of ego. A single drop of love is sufficient to subdue the oceans of ego.

Ah, that thing for which I gave my heart—
Even when I try to recall it, I cannot remember.

A day will come when the ego has utterly gone—this mountain will have crumbled—then you won’t even remember which drop fell, which drop melted the mountain, for what thing you gave your heart. Perhaps you won’t know at all; it may have been so subtle, so small.

Pain will arise from the melting of the ego. And pain will arise because people all around will start saying all kinds of things about you! Laugh at what they say. For, to tell the truth, they are the mad ones. They are in love with the petty. Today or tomorrow, when their sleep breaks, they will regret it deeply. You have befriended the Vast. Today you may look mad, but in the end you alone will be proved the victor. Ultimately, victory is yours. Satyameva jayate—truth alone triumphs! Small, petty victories can be won by falsehood as well, but the final victory belongs to truth. Do not be afraid.

You could not remain among flowers, O fragrance of the flower;
We lived among thorns and were not distressed.

Thorns of love will prick; they will give pain. But do not be afraid; do not panic.

You could not remain among flowers, O fragrance of the flower;
We lived among thorns and were not distressed.

Do not be distressed. These thorns that now seem like thorns will be transformed into flowers. Life is a great, marvelous alchemy—a most mysterious chemistry. Here sorrow turns into joy; here hell becomes heaven; here death becomes the doorway to great life.

And difficulties will increase. As your love turns toward the Divine—as you become intoxicated with that nectar—you will, in many ways, become useless to the world. Your taste for it will lessen. The running around will decrease. This is perfectly natural. You will be satisfied with the minimum that suffices. Others will think you have lost. Others will think you have accepted defeat. Others will think you have grown depressed. Do not pay much attention to what others say. Look within and see: have you really lost, or has victory just begun?

In love, the only heart worth having
Is the one that is being called a failure.

Here in the world, the one who keeps failing is the one who succeeds in God.

And this is no ordinary love. Ordinary love brings great pains; extraordinary love will bring extraordinary pains. But the pleasures of ordinary love are ordinary; the ecstasies of extraordinary love are extraordinary.

Do not sing the song of love, O mad one;
Do not enter the city of love, O mad one;
This path is lined with blades, O mad one;
Love is a great affliction!

The road of love is thorn-strewn, and love is greatly painful.

Do not sing the song of love, O mad one;
Do not enter the city of love, O mad one;
This path is lined with blades, O mad one;
Love is a great affliction!

In love one has to weep,
In love one has to lose one’s life;
Be it victory or defeat, O mad one—
Love is a great affliction!

There is no true love in this world,
No one is truly anyone’s friend;
The world’s love is false, O mad one—
Love is a great affliction!

Tell me, what did you gain at last?
In love you only repented in the end;
Now even tears are in vain, O mad one—
Love is a great affliction!

Worldly love, even ordinary love, is greatly painful. There are only brief glimpses of happiness, here and there, sometimes. A fragrance comes and is gone. The stench is more. Now and then, somewhere, a faint feeling of joy arises; ninety-nine percent is darkness upon darkness. A single ray breaks forth sometimes—but for that single ray people endure such immense suffering!

The love toward which I am taking you has the possibility of a hundred percent light—rays will shower upon you fully. Naturally, much refinement will be required—much burning, much passage through fire. Courage is needed—the courage of a madman. Courage is needed—the courage of a gambler.

But that is only half the story: that love is pain, love is suffering. Love is also bliss; love is ecstasy. That is the other half of love. And the greater the pain, the greater the possibility of bliss. If you keep accounts only of pain, you will soon be frightened—keep accounts of ecstasy too.

At the dawn of love there was a morning, gliding gently,
Holding in the eyes the storms of a hundred colors.
Even now, in imagination, that wakeful vision remains,
That ecstatic ambience is still dancing in my eyes.
Those stealthy glances, that secret smile,
That embodied lightning—now hidden, now bare.
With a languid stretch, love awoke,
The ecstasy of feelings became the sun of the rose-garden.

Flowers are blooming in profusion. Do not let your gaze be stuck only on the thorns. Do not keep counting only the thorns. And remember: even if among a thousand thorns a single flower blossoms, the worth of that one flower far surpasses the pain of a thousand thorns. And I tell you—thousands of flowers are blooming. So drop the negative outlook. Some people keep counting only the negatives. They count the pebbles and stones on the way and pay no heed to the rain of delight falling upon the path. They keep accounts of petty obstacles, while the Vast’s grace showers—and they accept it as if it were their birthright.

Beware of this delusion. Then it will soon become clear to you that love on one side kills, on the other side gives life; on one side erases, on the other side creates. It dissolves the ego and gives birth to the soul. Love is like death—and also like birth. It is to be crucified—and also to be enthroned. Look to the throne—and make the cross your ladder. The cross is the staircase to the throne. And death is the doorway to a new birth.

Asked by Swami Krishna Vedant.
Sannyas is the beginning of being dyed, not the end. We start by dyeing the clothes, because even that much courage has not remained in people; then the body will be dyed, then the mind, then the soul. As your courage grows, the color will spread. You have fallen into the hands of a dyer. Do not be afraid. The clothes are only the beginning. If the finger has been caught, the whole is not far. Once you give the hint that you are ready to be dyed—and perhaps you gave the hint thinking, “It’s only the clothes that will be dyed; what else can happen?”—but once I receive from you the signal that you are ready to be dyed, then I don’t ask you again! Then I simply go on dyeing.

It is a long journey. You will have to take many immersions in the pitcher of dye—dip after dip. For lifetimes your colors have faded. You have no remembrance of the Divine. You left God somewhere and don’t even remember where. So: dip after dip, blow upon blow, every possible device to awaken you—through meditation, devotion, love, bhajan, song, dance, word, silence, scripture, satsang—every kind of means is being used. Don’t be troubled. The final hour of dyeing will also draw near. Since you had the courage to begin, you have become worthy of the end as well.

In answer to your question I said: be dyed through and through. Dyeing the clothes is not being dyed completely. The dye on the clothes only indicates from your side a gesture that “I am ready.”

If your very soul were dyed all at once, perhaps you would not be able to bear it. The capacity to bear develops slowly. If the whole sky were to fall at once, you might be crushed. Slowly, slowly. Shanaih shanaih. As your courage grows, grace grows. Step by step. There is no need for haste. And complete dyeing means: to be a siddha, accomplished. When nothing remains to be dyed, it means you have become God. It is a long journey.

But remember, Lao Tzu’s famous saying is that a journey of a thousand miles is completed one step at a time. And no one can take two steps together; only one step can be taken at a time. A journey of a thousand miles is completed step by step.

So, Krishna Vedant, you have taken the first step. If you ask me, I call the first step half the journey. The first step is the most difficult. The second step becomes easy, because it is like the first. The third too becomes easy, because it is like the first. Once one step is taken, the knack is learned. Now that you have fallen into the hands of the dyer, you will be dyed completely.

The confusion arose because you did not write your sannyas name in the question. So there could be only two reasons. One: you wrote the question before taking sannyas; then the question arose from a non-sannyasin mind, hence I had to say, “Be dyed.” The question arose from a non-sannyasin mind, so I had to say, “Become a sannyasin.” Or the second possibility is that you wrote the question after taking sannyas but, out of old habit, you wrote your old name. Then too it is necessary to remind you to drop the old; otherwise it will obstruct the dye. Let the old go—let it be farewell, goodbye. Break your ties with the old.

This is precisely the meaning of a new name: that your new birth has happened. You have lived the past—thirty, forty, fifty years—and a great deal of dust has gathered. A fifty-year-old ruin lies there. Some people keep repairing the same ruin, renovating it—propping it up here and there, rearranging bricks, where the plaster has fallen they replaster, where the paint has peeled they repaint, where the thatch has broken they fit a new roof. They keep doing everything within the old. But the old is old; a ruin is a ruin. I do not believe in restoring ruins. I say: bring it down to the ground, remove it completely; we will build anew.

And if you keep making small changes within the old, they never quite happen, because the power of the old is great. A hundred old elements, and you add one new—the ninety-nine old will make even that one new old. Their force is greater. Therefore it is right to close the old chapter! That is why I give a new name, so that from the moment of sannyas you begin to think that this is your birth.

Buddha told his bhikshus: after sannyas, count your age from the day of sannyas. That was exactly right. One day there was great fun. An old sannyasin came to bow at Buddha’s feet—he must have been seventy. Buddha often asked, “Bhikshu, how old are you?” King Prasenjit had come to see Buddha and was sitting by his side. When Buddha asked that bhikshu, “How old are you?” he said, “Four years.” Prasenjit was startled. A seventy- or eighty-year-old saying, “Four years!” Perhaps I misheard? He said to Buddha, “Ask again, I missed the hearing—what is he saying?” Buddha said, “He is saying ‘four years.’” Prasenjit said, “And you raise no question about it? He says four! He is at least seventy—could be eighty.” Buddha laughed and said, “You don’t know—this is how we count. He became a sannyasin four years ago. What counting is there of the sixty-six years before that? They went in a dream; what is there to count?”

You don’t keep accounts of your actions in dreams. If someone asks how much wealth you have, you tell only what you have while awake. You don’t add what you also have in dreams. In dreams you may have millions, but you don’t say, “Brother, while awake I have just these hundred rupees, but in dreams I also have millions—so hundred plus millions.” You don’t add the money from dreams.

Why not?

Because dream-money is not money. Wealth of stupor is not wealth. Life in unconsciousness is not life.

Let the past go. And I know: habit is habit; it leaves only by leaving, it goes only by going. It takes time. Suddenly someone will ask your name after sannyas, and the old name will come to mind again. For a few days it will continue. After sannyas someone will ask, “Your caste? Your religion?” and again the old will come: I am Jain, I am Hindu, I am Buddhist. It will be forgotten only by repeated forgetting. Hence I said: be dyed through and through—become truly a sannyasin.

By taking sannyas, sannyas does not happen. One may take sannyas and still be deprived of sannyas—if it is taken merely as a formality. Some people do this. I am quite amazed—especially Indians—take a false sannyas! Those who come from abroad do not take it falsely. The reason is, they know nothing about sannyas. They try to understand, they make an effort to understand, they think, ponder, ask: What is sannyas? Why take it? What will happen? They reflect, they churn. But the Indian already knows that sannyas is a good thing. And the few thorns that were in that good sannyas I have removed. One need not leave home or doorway, neither wife nor child. Then the mind says, “Why not enjoy the fun of being a sannyasin? Nothing is lost, and sannyas is available so easily—so take it.”

So, first, the Indian mind knows what sannyas is; it knows the glory of sannyas. And since I have removed all the obstacles in between, he thinks, “What is the harm in taking it?” He takes it.

Or he takes it for other reasons too. Such occasions often arise. Someone takes sannyas; I say to him, “Meditate!” He says, “How can I meditate right now? Actually I took sannyas because my health is not good. I thought that if I got connected with you perhaps my health would improve. That is why I took sannyas. I have tried all treatments.” So sannyas is a therapy! He thought, “I have tried everything; let me try this last one too.”

A woman brought a child. The child was not willing to come; she was dragging him: “Give him sannyas! His mind is disturbed, and we have tried every treatment; now we thought at least let’s get him sannyas.”

This will not be sannyas! What kind of sannyas would that be? The Indian mind has lived with religion so long that it has become skilled even in cheating with religion.

Then there are those who come here and take sannyas… they are carried away in a mood; seeing everyone in ochre, a wave arises, tears flow, they are transported; they hear, understand… But when they sit in the train to return, panic begins: “Now we are going back home!” Some even hide their clothes in the suitcase on the way. Reaching home they do not inform anyone. They write to me: “We are great offenders, but what to do? We cannot gather the courage to tell the wife, to tell the office, to let people know that we have become sannyasins.” While taking sannyas they ask me, “If we keep the mala hidden inside, is there any harm?”

The mala being outside or inside is not the question—but the intention to hide it inside, there is the harm. Lest anyone comes to know. A gentleman took sannyas and went away; when he returned after two or three months, I asked him, “What happened to the ochre garments?” And my eyes are not weak. He said, “Don’t you see? I am wearing the ochre garments.” Then I looked very carefully and discovered—yes, there is a faint tinge in the white! If one searches a lot, with spectacles, perhaps one could make out that there is a slight tint.

Such trickery! The clothes looked absolutely white; a tiny bit of dye—a pinch of color dropped into a bucketful of water—and he must have swished the clothes! When I looked very hard, I said, “Come a little closer, let me look more carefully”—though my eyes are not bad—then I said, “Yes, it does seem so.” I had thought the clothes had not been washed for two or four days and that on the journey a little whiteness was lost.

Therefore, do not assume that by taking sannyas, sannyas has happened. It is only the beginning. Much still has to be done. The foundation has been laid; now the mansion has to be raised.

When we look at the Divine through the lake of the mind, the reflection that forms—and it will be transient, because thousands of thought-waves are moving in the mind—keeps breaking, fragmenting. Hence happiness is never possible in the world, because before it can even take shape it is uprooted. Here pebbles keep falling into the lake. You were walking down the road quite cheerful, very happy today, fresh since morning; there had been no fuss at home; you left the house in high spirits—and a man passed by you. He did nothing particular: he simply didn’t greet you; he greets you every day, today he didn’t—just that, a pebble fell. He didn’t even throw the pebble; it just fell. He did nothing—only what he usually does, today he didn’t; he turned his face away and went on. At once worry was born, waves began to rise; the feeling of taking revenge arose: This fellow—how much good I have done to him! The whole lake was covered with ripples. All joy was lost; the melody was forgotten. The smallest thing upsets your mind.

Therefore, through this mind happiness can never be attained. Happiness is in the Eternal. Remove the mind and look at the world, and the Divine is found. Do not look at the moon in the lake; take your eyes off the lake and look at the moon itself. God and the world are not two; the world is but God’s shadow. Hence it is called maya, illusion.

Even if I adorn my embrace with lovely buds—so what?
Even if I light a candle in my house of sorrows—so what?
Even if I smile—so what? Even if I play the veena—so what?
The bitterness of time’s discourse is not going to be erased.
This bitterness of time—this does not vanish.

Even if I fill my lap with flowers upon flowers—what will come of it? The flowers will soon wither.
Even if I light a lamp in my grief-filled life—so what? The lamp will soon go out; the oil will be spent, the wick will perish.
Even if I smile—how long can you smile? The smile comes and goes.
Even if I strike the strings—how long will you pluck the veena? Songs will arise, the notes of music will swell and then be lost.
The bitterness of time’s discourse is not going to be erased.
This turmoil of time—and time means the mind. Consider: time is born only because of the mind. The moment the mind disappears, time disappears.

A disciple asked Jesus, “What will be the most special thing in your Lord’s kingdom?”
Jesus said: There shall be time no longer. There, there will be no time.
Mahavira says: In samadhi there is no time—timeless, beyond time. All the sages have said: kala, time, disappears. And where time disappears, death also disappears. That is why we have given kala two meanings—time and death. Both vanish. The experience of amrit, the deathless nectar, happens. Where the Eternal is found, there is neither time nor death. When nothing remains that can perish, how can death remain? The union is with the imperishable, with the eternal.

Even if I adorn my embrace with lovely buds—so what?
Even if I light a candle in my house of sorrows—so what?
Even if I smile—so what? Even if I play the veena—so what?
The bitterness of time’s discourse is not going to be erased.

Even if I kiss the moon’s crystalline edges;
Even if I fly up and pluck these colored stars;
Even if I turn back the flowing currents of life—
The bitterness of time’s discourse is not going to be erased.

Even if I drink in the signals of intoxicating eyes;
Even if I lift an ocean to wash away life’s bitterness;
Even if I make the scene of grief look like paradise—
The bitterness of time’s discourse is not going to be erased.

Even if these ways and these conditions change,
Even if these imaginings and these thoughts change,
Even if this consciousness and these emotions change—
The bitterness of time’s discourse is not going to be erased.

One day this sobbing voice will choke into silence;
The binding string of the kingdom will snap and scatter;
The embrace of supplication will be filled with the splendor of grace—
Still, the bitterness of time’s discourse is not going to be erased.

Everything will be torn to shreds. However much you fill your lap with flowers, all will be scattered. However many lamps you light, all will be extinguished. Even if you pluck the stars from the sky, it will all be in vain.
One day this sobbing voice will choke into silence—
Sing as many songs as you like, play the veena as much as you will...
One day this sobbing voice will choke into silence.
The binding will break apart, the order will fall to pieces.
All will break, all will be scattered.
Even if the embrace of devotion is filled with the beloved’s splendor,
The bitterness of time’s discourse is not going to be erased.

However much happiness you manufacture here, it will all be laid waste. However many houses you build here, they will all fall. Here everything is houses built on sand, paper boats set afloat on water. And the bitterness of time, time’s acridity, time’s poison remains.

The meaning of the world is: time. And time means mind. Mind and time are two names of the same energy. Watch it: if at any moment it so happens that there are no thoughts in the mind, you will at once find—time is no more. The clock will keep ticking, but the clock within will stand still. In meditation, hours pass and you do not notice how much time has gone by. In meditation nothing passes. In meditation you come to know that which always is and never passes. Passing happens only in the mind.

The world is a glimpse of Truth. And the glimpse is in the lake of the mind. And the lake of the mind is stirred by the smallest pebble. Therefore whatever you build with the support of the mind will break, be uprooted, go wrong, be torn to shreds.

Step aside from the mind. Be free of the mind. Seek the state of no-mind. In that state of no-mind there is liberation, moksha, the Brahman. And let me repeat: the world and the Divine are not two. They are one. But seeing the Divine through the mind gives rise to the illusion of the world. Seeing without the mind, all illusions disappear. The Truth is experienced. Truth is realized.

That’s all for today.